


Whoop Tango Mike

by maaaaa



Series: Floater [3]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Glimpses of Jim's and Blair's lives pre-canon and post TSBYBS living with the Chopec.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Series: Floater [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693147
Kudos: 7





	Whoop Tango Mike

Jim Ellison was twenty-four years old the first time he fell for a long-legged redhead.

It was six years since he’d left home, and Cascade was thousands of miles and six years of no regrets behind him.

He’d found that Army life suited him. The harsh tactics of basic training hadn’t fazed him in the least, thanks to his dad’s style of parenting. He understood the psychological games carried out by the drill sergeants for what they were. And on more than one occasion, when rousted out of bed in the middle of the night, or made to run miles in the rain, or when subjected to hours of extra calisthenics…the entire unit sometimes paying the price for the infractions, real or fabricated, of just one recruit…he’d thought with some chagrin that the Army could’ve learned a thing or two from his old man.

The competitiveness William had fostered between his sons under the guise of preparing them for the real world had only served to drive a wedge between Jim and Stephen. On the other hand, what Jim gleaned from the Army’s brand of competition was a sense of comradeship and honor, coupled with a drive to work with his unit for a common purpose. And that purpose was something far more meaningful then a Jags season ticket or a trip to Japan and Australia.

By the time his initial six-year hitch was up, Jim had earned a degree and his 2nd Lieutenant bars, and had his sights set higher. When he re-upped, he signed on for Ranger training, which landed him in several different camps in Georgia and Florida for the different phases of the course.

Less than half of all soldiers that start Ranger training finish. Of those that finish, less than twenty percent make it through without having to take at least one of the three rigorous training phases more than once.

At the end of the intense sixty-one day Ranger combat leadership course he’d attended, Jim Ellison was in that elite percent. He’d left not only with the coveted black and gold Ranger insignia on his uniform, but also with a newfound sense of purpose.

A leave wasn’t the norm after graduation from the course; usually soldiers returned to their regular units. But Jim had been tapped for a transfer to Special Forces and his assignment hadn’t come through yet. He was given two week’s leave and he intended to shed his army persona for a while and have one hell of a binge before reporting for duty.

So three days after the mandatory downtime following Ranger training he rented a ’65 blue Cobra, having scoured every lot within a twenty-mile radius of Fort Benning, Georgia to hunt one down. He headed south with no particular destination in mind, wearing the aviator sunglasses provided by the car dealership, a shit-eating grin, and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt that billowed in the breeze as he zipped along the coastal highway. His Army duffle was stuffed in the trunk and a dog-eared copy of On The Road was on the seat beside him.

He’d ended up on an isolated beach in central Florida, frequented only by locals and part-time beachcombers that seemingly had lost their bearings long about the same time the Cobra had rolled off the assembly line. He spent a couple of days watching wannabe surfers test the measly waves the Atlantic had to offer, and slept those first few nights away in a hammock slung between two palm trees under inky blue-black skies studded with starlight and the moon’s soft glow.

By the third day the call of the surf beckoned him and he succumbed to its lure. He rented a board and made a few runs in the late afternoon, attracting the attention of a few bikini-clad girls who giggled and waved and then ran off down the beach.

Jim stood in the shallows; his board tucked loosely under one arm with the water splashing gently at his calves, crusting them with doily-patterned lines of salt. He watched the girls for a few minutes, considering whether or not to give chase.

Not far off he spotted a group of guys horsing around in the lee of a small sand dune. The girls made a point to ignore them, and gave them a wide berth. Jim couldn’t help but notice that once they’d passed the guys they looked back clandestinely, and exchanged whispered comments behind hands cupped close to one another’s ears.

One of the guys broke off from the others and started running Jim’s way. He ran with an easy-going lope, his long legs not covering half the ground they should’ve been able to. He was tanned and fit and wore baggy trunks that rode low on his hips and swallowed his knees as he ran. His hair was long, longer than Jim’d ever seen on a guy. It was a brassy red and wavy and wispy strands of it whipped about his face, gently lashing his cheeks and catching in his mouth. He had a carefree look about him and a devil-may-care smile graced his good-looking face. He was laughing and he tossed a quick look back over his shoulder every few seconds.

Jim saw why as one of the other guys from the group picked up a Frisbee and got ready to throw it, motioning with his hand for the guy running toward Jim to keep going, to get some distance.

Jim walked out of the water onto the warm sand and tipped his board upright, leaning lightly against it with folded arms, watching with amusement. Hippies, he decided, taking a closer look at the others and making an offhand judgment based on attire, necklaces, and other body adornments that smacked of non-conformity. Any of which might’ve accounted for the girls’ reaction to them.

A moment later a bright red Frisbee sailed through the air, arcing up into the sky and then slowly descending. The red was vivid against the cloudless blue and Jim couldn’t look away. The disc blurred around the edges and then sharpened and Jim stared at it, and only it, slack-jawed and immobile.

The intended receiver turned to watch the disc’s trajectory and trotted along backward to gauge his catch. Shouted warnings to watch where he was going went unheard against the sloshing burble of the ocean. He collided with Jim, whose sight was still fixated on the Frisbee, knocking him flat and toppling the board over. He landed on top of Jim and then neatly rolled off into the sand. He got to his knees next to Jim and jostled him, roughly at first, as guys will do, then with more gentle insistence when Jim didn’t respond.

The Frisbee sailed on past and landed at the water’s edge.

Jim blinked and shook his head, and when he came around fully the first thing he became aware of was the redhead leaning over him with concerned green eyes assessing him. There was something about the look; about the way the redhead’s hand caressed his shoulder and the way he involuntarily responded to it. And he realized with a surprisingly pleasant jolt that the girls hadn’t avoided the guys because they were hippies.

The next wave that broke against the shore claimed the Frisbee, pulling it out into the depths where it bobbed on the swells and soon floated off, out of sight.

Clumsy apologies and brief, hasty introductions that never got beyond first names followed.

The redhead’s was Cal. He was a couple years younger than Jim and was bumming his way around the country while on break from college studies due to lack of funds. They spent a while just sitting on the beach talking until the lapping of surf against shore began to retreat and the skyline began to turn purple near the horizon.

By the time the sun sunk slowly down behind the trees that lined the beach, casting spidery shadows on the sand and mottled reflections of gold and orange out onto the shimmering surface of the sea, the two men were hand in hand, meandering along the shore.

It was easy to like Cal, and Jim let himself fall under the spell of his charms. They spent the remainder of Jim’s leave together. Jim was introduced to gay bars and hangouts, to a lifestyle he’d only been marginally aware of back in Cascade. A lifestyle his father certainly would never have understood or condoned and which the army would never tolerate. Cal understood though, having been subjected to his share of narrow-minded intolerance and high school hazings back in the small Midwest town he’d grown up in.

The wild binge Jim’d set out to have subsided instead into an enjoyable, one-time fling with no expectations beyond the here and now.

They visited beaches more secluded than the one where they’d met, where the only giggling, whispering, and surreptitious looks cast their way were by other men.

They made love like teenagers, neither man being too far removed from those awkward years. They gave each other hasty blowjobs in the middle of the day or indulged in unhurried mutual masturbation in the warm, sticky dark at night in Cal’s makeshift digs in the basement of his beach pals’ house.

And often, in the stillness afterward, they’d thumb through Jim’s copy of On The Road, and Cal would expound on its homoerotic undertones for Jim’s edification.

Jim had no illusions regarding what would become of his army career if this part of his life ever came to light, so when his leave was up he and Cal parted amicably with no compunction, no false promises to keep in touch or meet again.

This time when Jim got behind the wheel of the Cobra he was in his uniform. Cal had confiscated his Hawaiian shirt but the rest of his civvies were jammed into the bottom of his duffle along with the book.

He only looked back once with a quick glance in the rearview mirror as he drove off. Cal was smiling his devilish smile, wearing Jim’s shirt.

Redheads, long-legged redheads, Jim mused with an appreciative shake of his head as he opened up the Cobra and sped off…gotta love ‘em.

~*~*~

“Come on, tell ‘em Jim,” Blair pleaded as several members of the tribe gave him dubious looks and one or two poked at him with disbelieving snorts. “Tell them I am not making it up!” He demanded with a laugh as he fended off the pokes by nudging the perpetrators with his elbows or slapping at them with weak-wristed swats.

The concept of red hair…naturally red hair…was both incredulous and funny to the tribe. Blair tried to point out that his own hair sometimes showed streaks of red, but they still weren’t buying it.

They used red dye of course, for clothing or body paint, and on occasion would apply it to their hair for special ceremonies. But that wasn’t the same thing at all. They thought perhaps their shaman was teasing them, or maybe trying to prepare them for some tale of a demon or other spirit he’d encountered in one of his dream-walks and was speaking metaphorically.

But Blair had just been telling them about his mother, a trip in itself, and when he’d gotten to the physical description of her the part about her red hair was met with disbelieving whistles and round-eyed doubt. He was amused that the thing they found hardest to swallow about what he’d told them of his mother was the color of her hair.

He wasn’t about to tell them of Jim’s past encounters with red hair; that would probably only serve to reinforce their misgivings about demons or evildoers. The look Jim shot at him gave away that Jim knew he’d at least toyed with the thought, but before Blair could try to use it as a further example Jim jumped in.

“He’s not pulling your leg,” Jim said in Quechua to the assembly, trying to back Blair up. But the slang only caused them to look down at their legs and give each other questioning looks, clearly not making the connection between Jim’s strange comment and Blair’s preposterous assertion.

Blair knew enough Quechua to understand what Jim said and grumbled sarcastically, “Thanks Jim, you’re a big help.”

Jim just laughed at Blair’s retort and shrugged as he was subjected to dismissive waves of good-natured derisiveness at his feeble attempt to defend his guide’s story.

It wasn’t until the warriors who’d gone to Cascade with Incacha corroborated Blair’s story by relating that they’d seen not only red hair but also various shades of brown and yellow, and even green, blue and purple among others, that Blair was finally believed. He did set them straight on the green, blue, and purple however.

The tribe was gathered, as they were at the end of most days, for talk and storytelling. And this particular evening was centered on family and customs. The tribe was always eager to hear Blair’s tales of strange faraway places and the people he’d studied. And they enjoyed to no end hearing him relate in boyish wonder the similarities he was always able to draw between those outlandish sounding foreign people and places and the Chopec.

As the evening slid toward nightfall, and the gathering began to break up, the tribal elders pulled Blair aside. They shooed Jim away as they set off on the dream-path with Blair, most likely to discuss matters of mysticism or other matters that Jim, even as sentinel, was not always allowed to be privy to.

Jim simply nodded agreeably. He checked the path and its surroundings with his senses as they wound their way into the jungle and out of sight. Satisfied all was well, he turned to face two young men who were waiting patiently to get his attention.

The two were favorites of his, and were constantly pestering him for pointers on anything and everything from fishing techniques to tracking.

“What is it this time Yupanki and Atipaj?” Jim asked with an exaggerated mock sigh of exasperation as he crossed his arms and pretended to be put out.

“Enquiri, don’t you remember? You promised---,” Atipaj began hesitantly.

Jim stopped him by holding up a hand and cracking a smile. The youngsters responded with sheepish grins at once again being taken in my Jim’s teasing sternness. Jim stationed himself between the two youngsters, slung an arm over each one’s shoulder and herded them off, wracking his brain for what is was he’d promised to show them this time.

Later that night, in the privacy of their hut Blair told Jim what had been discussed with the elders.

“It’s time for me to join the tribe,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Officially.”

They were both sweat-slicked and limp after lovemaking, usually a good time to spring things on Jim that might take some convincing.

Blair was on his third attempt at explaining what the simple statement entailed, and Jim, knowing exactly what it entailed including the parts Blair was judiciously editing, voiced his objection bluntly.

“Forget it, Sandburg,” Jim decreed for the third time. He shook his head slightly but with just enough force to make his point.

“Not your call, Jim,” Blair replied for the third time, much more brusquely and less eloquently than the first two times.

“You have no idea what you’re in for,” Jim reasoned, giving in a bit and expanding on his objection at last.

Blair immediately jumped on the slip-up. “So, what you’re saying is you don’t think I can handle it? That I’m not man enough? Don’t have the balls? Is that it?” Blair’s voice was entirely too calm, not at all in tune with his body, which signaled he was more than ready for a scrap.

“Hell, Chief, did I say that?” Jim countered. He scrubbed at his forehead irritably.

“Oh yeah, yeah, loud and clear Ellison.” Blair challenged. “Mr. Master of the Unspoken Do Things My Way Or Else.”

“Christ Almighty, you just don’t get it,” Jim said, clearly aggravated but wanting to avoid a tussle.

“Oh I get it all right,” Blair persisted. “It’s the good ‘ole you’re not a cop Sandburg all over again---,”

“Well you’re not, dammit,” Jim interrupted harshly. “You’re not a fucking warrior. You’re a shaman.”

Blair shoved Jim in the ribcage then, hard enough to make Jim wince. He rolled over and got to his feet. He stomped away from their sleeping mat, over to the hide-covered entry, and then back again. He looked down at Jim, and even though it was dark, looked him square in the eye, opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap and stomped off again.

The only light was the feeble glimmer of the waning quarter-moon as it filtered through the trees outside and down through the loosely thatched roof of their hut. But Jim had no problem seeing the ire, frustration and wounded look that played over Blair’s face, each in turn.

Jim breathed out a heavy sigh. Being asked to join the tribe, officially, by the elders was no small matter. For a man it meant entering the ranks of the warriors. It entailed grueling mental and physical tasks. For Blair it was the tribe’s way of saying ‘we consider you a member of the tribe, you’re more than a visitor who’s welcome to stay indefinitely, you’re not just here under the auspices of your sentinel, but as a member in your own right’. It wasn’t really an invitation. It was an expectation, a rite of passage.

As if reading Jim’s thoughts Blair said, “Incacha was shaman, and a warrior too. They expect no less of me. And I’m your guide to boot.”

Jim thought back to his Ranger training and compared it to the Chopec warrior initiation. Both were demanding; each designed to push a man to his limits both psychologically and viscerally. Blair was strong in both aspects and his background in anthropology gave him an edge, but still...

“It’s not the same,” Jim whispered feebly, knowing Blair’s upbringing gave him no frame of reference. Men of the tribe were raised knowing what to expect. They prepared for it since childhood. And Blair’s outlook on the military, especially in regard to his view of what it’d done to Jim, in Jim’s mind weighed against him being able to pass the tests.

“You think I’ll let you down.” Blair’s voice was low, taunting, and it wasn’t a question.

Jim got up quickly and crossed the small hut. He pulled Blair to him and held him close. “No, never,” he assured with in an unwavering voice. He bent his head and fit it snugly into place against Blair’s neck.

Blair didn’t hesitate to hug Jim in return. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it.” He leaned into Jim’s embrace. “This is important Jim. I can do it. I need to do it.”

Jim nodded with resigned affirmation. “I know,” he whispered in return. Then they kissed, slowly, sealing the deal with love and trust.

“I’ll help you prepare. Whatever you need. Anything.” Jim offered. He held Blair’s face in his hands and met his gaze head-on. “Anything.”

Blair smiled and stole a quick kiss. “Yeah, they figured you’d say that, once you came ‘round,” he answered with a chuckle. “But you’re not allowed---,”

“What?” Jim retorted indignantly, realizing he’d been played. He let go of Blair’s face and gave his ass a sharp slap. “You little shit!”

“Hey, hey, just calm down,” Blair instructed, laughing outright now. He held up a finger and pointed it warningly at Jim. His other hand was busy rubbing his butt. And he was rapidly sidestepping away from Jim, shielding his posterior from any further retribution.

“I’m a warrior of the tribe. I can request, hell I’m the sentinel and you’re my guide, I can demand to be allowed to help,” Jim scowled. Now that he’d warmed to and accepted the idea of Blair going through the rite, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to be a part of it.

“Not your call, Jim,” Blair said, reverting to his simple earlier argument. And Jim knew he was right again.

“You know if you screw up or screw off everyone who’s on your initiation team pays the price, right?” Jim growled as he advanced, parrying Blair’s attempts to stay out of his reach.

“Screw up, screw off? Me?” Blair protested with mock offense and wide-eyed innocence. He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Jim for good measure.

“They take it very seriously, Junior,” Jim warned even as he knew full well Blair would give it his all, and then some. “It’s an honor to be chosen to help someone prepare for the trial. The tribe depends on its warriors, so if you can’t hack it they take it as a failure on their part as much as yours.”

“Yeah, right, kinda like the 7th grade, huh? Or like army basic training? Group punishment?” Blair rolled his eyes and snickered. “The comparisons would’ve made for an interesting paper, back in my old anthro days don’t ya think?”

“I’ll give you interesting paper, Darwin,” Jim warned, smiling now in spite of himself.

When he lunged for Blair and grabbed him, Blair didn’t resist. He let Jim drag him back to the sleeping mat and co-operated fully as he was pushed down onto it. Jim swatted his ass lightly a few times, just to keep up the illusion that he still had some say about something.

And as the sky overhead darkened as the moon set, they made love again.

“When?” Jim whispered when they’d caught their breath. He trailed his fingertips lazily along Blair’s side.

“We leave in the morning,” Blair replied in the same hushed tone. “We’ll be back,” he gulped and didn’t finish.

“You’ll be back when you’re a warrior,” Jim said confidently and added with fierce pride and determination on Blair’s behalf, “Shouldn’t take long at all.”

They said their farewells in the morning before leaving their hut. Jim didn’t wish Blair luck, knowing the words weren’t needed. Instead he pressed something into Blair’s hand before unceremoniously pushing him out the door.

Blair smiled when he opened his fist and saw what it was…Jim’s army Ranger insignia. He tossed it lightly in the air, caught it, and then tucked it into the small leather pouch hanging at his waist.

Blair set off with three other men, trailing behind and carrying all their gear as well as his own. No one in the tribe took any notice of the departure, though everyone was aware of what was going on.

Jim knew where they were headed. There were several places in the jungle the warrior initiates were taken, and the location for any given trial was supposed to be secret. But Jim knew. As the tribe’s sentinel he’d allowed himself the transgression, though he had no intention of following or interfering in any way.

As the days passed, Jim became restless and ornery. Most of the tribe gave him the space he needed, but several of the matrons gently scolded him when he didn’t want to eat and didn’t put up with his surliness.

He’d lay awake at night for hours and then drift off to sleep with fragmented dreams of basic training, Ranger training, past covert ops missions and police investigations, and of all things, redheads who’d let him down.

But the dreams always righted themselves and ended with Blair in his arms.

It was only eight days later, well within the anticipated timeframe for any Chopec to complete the initiation tasks, when the small band returned.

Jim knew they were coming well in advance, as did the tribe’s other lookouts. The village buzzed with anticipation and hasty preparations were made for the welcoming ceremony.

They emerged from the jungle, along the path that led from the direction of the northern mountain slopes. The path used when a new warrior was returning.

Blair was leading the way; he had the accouterments of a warrior slung crisscross over his chest. The other warriors carried all the remaining gear. He looked tired and battered, and a bit ragged around the edges, but he was smiling. Jim caught the glint of yet another metal hoop piercing one ear and shook his head.

Blair’s eyes and nose were masked in red paint with an additional stripe of red from nose to chin. The sun caught a ripple of red in his hair and Jim had to squint to be sure it wasn’t blood or red dye.

Jim couldn’t take his eyes off him. He watched as the other members of the tribe greeted him with hearty backslaps and congratulatory remarks, urging him toward the center of the village where the celebration would take place; where Jim stood waiting.

Jim raised his arms to the sky, threw his head back and roared a loud, fierce, “Who-ah!”

And then Blair strode purposefully toward Jim, soaking in the admiration and acceptance of the tribe and took his place at Jim’s side.

~*~*~

*Whoop – In US Army jargon - A spirited cry, which can mean nearly anything positive. Considered the ‘war cry’ of the US Army Rangers. Pronounced as a short one syllable “Who-Ah”.

*Tango Mike – The NATO phonetic alphabet for “Thanks Much”.


End file.
